The Broken Boy
by behindthealias
Summary: Young Harry Potter is endowed with the power to recall the dead and manipulate the strange currents of magic. The spirits take a liking to him and he embarks on a quest to protect himself and to find the love that he had been deprived of for too long.


Privet Drive was normally a quiet neighborhood, average in every way. Albus surveyed the slick asphalt recently dampened by rain. The sky seemed to weep for what had come to pass earlier that evening. The Potters were dead and a child had been orphaned. He had not anticipated the loss of both the Potters. With a long sigh, the wizened old man moved after what seemed like a lifetime. He did not like that he had to leave the Potter boy here. He was unscrupulous at the best of times, but even he had a better conscience than to leave one of magical blood with these...mongrels. Not that he had anything against all muggles. In fact, he liked them for their ignorance and their stupidity, so pliant in the hands of a capable manipulator. These, however, were the worst humanity had to offer. Absently, he drew the deluminator from his robes and the lights along Privet Drive were swallowed whole, one by one.

Alone in the dark, Albus felt relief as cool darkness enveloped him in a protective embrace. Number 4 Privet Drive, an average whitewashed house belonging to an average, whitewashed family. Albus sneered. Beside him, a small black cat transformed smoothly into an older woman with a pointed hat. The woman, his colleague, ranted at him in a lilting Scottish accent. In all honesty, Minerva was right to be concerned. These were "the worst sort of muggles". Albus sighed again and gave her weak assurances as they waited for the arrival of Hagrid the half-giant and the Potter boy. A strange puttering sound soon caught their attention and the flying motorbike made its appearance, a streak of black across the full moon. Young Harry would never remember the bumpy ride or the harsh, biting winds that swept past him as he slept. Nor would he ever remember the old man with the half moon spectacles staring down calculatingly at him as he was left on the doorstep of the Dursley residence.

Albus was the last to leave the scene. He'd stopped, wordlessly weaving compulsion charms and powerful spells around the sleeping baby. Yes, the muggles would take him. After placing a letter to accompany the Potter boy, he apparated away with a small pop. At his departure, however, small wisps of light and an ethereal mist gathered around the sleeping bundle. Old and terribly powerful spirits, they were, and they were angry. With gentle tendrils and soft sighs, the spirits searched through the cloud of malignant magic weaved tightly around the boy. Hissing with anger and frustration, the congregation of spirits decided it was necessary to act. Being in the astral plane, they could do little to remove the spells. Instead, they bestowed upon him a gift of knowledge so that he might liberate himself when the time came.

Petunia Dursley had answered the door with a scream that cold morning in November. She'd picked up Harry as she would a dirty cat and walked him into the house at arm's length with his legs dangling under him and his head lolling about in bewilderment at the sudden movement. Piercing green eyes stared back at her and somehow, she knew her sister was dead. The Dursleys wondered what to do with the unwanted child who would, undoubtedly, grow up to be as freakish as Lily and James had been. Harry was kept in the same room as his cousin Dudley for the first few years of his life when he had needed frequent care. As soon as he could hold a frying pan and reach the stove, he was made to make the family's meals and clean the house. Vernon Dursley had also begun his beatings, which escalated when Harry refused to cry and his bones refused to remain broken. When his eyesight had proven bad enough to catch the attention of the nurse who worked at his primary school, the Dursleys had grudgingly allowed the school to buy him a pair of glasses.

Harry was a quiet boy and a beautiful child. Outside of his relatives' home, he was quite loved by his teachers and his neighbors. When asked about the scar on his forehead, the Dursleys had always been quick to explain that Harry's parents had been killed in a car crash with him in the car and that they were drunks. Everyone looked at young Harry with different eyes, wondering if his parents' alcoholism had damaged his brain. Little did they know, the boy had understood every word that had crossed their lips and silently wondered if the information was true. When Harry was alone, he would stare up at the ceiling of the boot cupboard he called home and wonder. Why did his uncle hit him so? Why was Dudley so deserving of better things and better treatment? Closing his eyes, Harry found ways to escape his thoughts and the pain that was result of the day's beatings. He reached a place in his mindscape that seemed to float away from his physical body. Opening his eyes again, he would find himself in a strange, translucent copy of the Dursley house. He made friends with the inhabitants of this realm. The "floaters" he called them.

The Floaters had taught him many things over the years. They taught him to read as a toddler. They taught him meaning behind most words by transplanting images of things from their past lives into his mind. Although he had been denied access to the outdoors as a child, he knew what a flower was and what the sun felt like on his skin. Although he had never seen a book, he knew his letters and his vocabulary was comparable to that of an adult. They also taught Harry how to be careful. Never was he to reveal to anyone how much he knew of how much he could understand. He was never to speak and never to look into his relatives' eyes. Harry followed the Floaters' doctrine religiously and avoided as much trouble as he could. After his first six years of life, the Floaters informed him of the existence of magic, a word Vernon had forbidden in his household. Harry had discovered it by accident. One evening, when he had been beaten to the point that he could no longer stand, he reached out to an immense well of power that had always been a bit out of his reach, commanding it to mend his legs. Miraculously, he found himself upright and completely healed, much to the horror of Vernon, who promptly locked him in the cupboard again and knocked back a few extra shots of vodka to convince himself it never happened.

This new ability excited Harry and it amused the Floaters immensely to see him levitate furniture and animate his toys. Harry, you must be wary, they had told him, Never let them see for they fear it. He understood perfectly well what that meant. Fear was the driving force behind his relatives' cruelty, he could feel it, see it in their eyes. When he was ten, Harry had come across a dead owl lying in the grass behind the Dursley house. He had been sent to clear away the corpse. Curious, he inspected the bird, finding no indication of any physical injury. Poison had apparently been the cause. Look into the plane, the Floaters provided, its soul is still anchored to the physical plane. Slipping into the astral plane, Harry saw it. The owls essence was still partially anchored to its still warm body. Reaching out with his own soul, he coaxed it back into the body, magically forcing the poison out of it and repairing any major damage. At once, the owl stood and stared at the curious child before flying away. Harry was elated at the discovery. A horrified gasp behind him quickly turned his elation into fear. Whipping his head around, he was met with a pudgy fist slamming into his nose. Vernons angry red face came into his view as he lay reeling on the ground, blood trickling from his nose. "Your freakishness is not welcome in this house, boy!" he hissed.

Harry's worst beating to date took place that day. Pain even he could not bear elicited cries of agony from his lips as his back was lashed by Vernon's metal belt buckle and his fingers roughly broken. The Floaters drew his mind away from his body and held him tight until the punishment was over. Slowly, they lowered him back into the physical plane and encouraged him to heal himself. The strange sensation of muscles reknitting themselves and bones rejoining caused Harry to writhe and cringe on the grass where the dead owl had lain before him. Once it was done, he lay spent and limp, his glasses knocked away and his shirt torn to shreds. The Floaters cooed comfortingly to him and stroked his pains away as he cried bitterly to himself. When Harry turned ten, he asked the Floaters of their identities. By then, he knew that his parents were dead and that he was the only one able to use magic.

"Who are you, exactly?" He asked.

"We are what you would call spirits. We exist in the astral plane. We are many, but we are one. You have heard of this." They responded.

"Oh." Harry responded, and fell quiet again.

"We sense that you have more questions, young one," the spirits pressed.

"Why is it that only I can see you? Why can I make dead things come back? Why can't everyone else see you? Why can I do all these weird things?" The questions came out like gunfire.

"Peace, young one. You are a gifted child. Your abilities are not to be feared. Despite what your uncle may say, you are not a freak. There are many more like you. You have yet to meet them. That is all." The spirits began to recede before Harry stopped them.

"If there are more like me, why hasn't anyone come to claim me? I don't belong here."

"Hush, all will be revealed in time."

"No! I can't keep living like this. I need some assurance that there is more out there than this Hell. Surely, you must understand." Harry was begging now, pleading. The spirit seemed to heave a sigh and seemed almost sad.

"You will not like what we have to say." Seeing the determined glint in the boy's sunken eyes, the spirits continued.

"You are a wizard, Harry, one of thousands who live hidden from the non-magical folk you would call muggles. You wield the power of magic that every soul is inherently capable of. Wizards are born with bodies that have cores capable of conducting this energy in order to bring this energy into this plane as a physical manifestation."

Harry's jaw worked left and right as he sorted through the information he had been given. "Can they-the other wizards-see you as well?" He asked suddenly.

"No." Came the brief reply.

"Why? Please, I need to know." The spirits heaved another sad, sad sigh and responded.

"The night you were orphaned, a very powerful wizard attempted to kill you, but by some chance, you were spared. A very old wizard took you from the house you were born in and placed you here. As to why, we do not know. That night, your soul was wrenched out of your body and forcefully sent back in. Part of you remained in the astral plane as if your mortal vessel did not have room to contain it. We witnessed it. It was...unusual. You are neither here nor there. It is...difficult to explain. You were not joined with us as other lost souls are. We believe this is why you have such access to the astral plane."

"Wait," Harry interrupted the spirits' ramblings, "I died?"

"Patience. Your mortal vessel did perish, but briefly. It was only a split second, but something pulled you back. It was strange, as we have said. No such occurrence has taken place before. Your gift of control over the dead was our doing. It is what is called necromancy in your tongue. Your natural talent with it, however, is within your blood. It is another anomaly we do not yet know the cause of." The spirits slipped into more ramblings.

Harry was silent for a while, musing over these new discoveries. "Spirit, I need power," he said at last. The spirits were grave and silent at once.

"Why?" It was a weighted question.

"To defend myself." Harry was bashful and wondered if he should have said anything. The spirits, however, seemed to think this a suitable answer. As long as the boy did not seek the power for lesser pursuits as revenge or conquest, the answer was acceptable.

"Then we shall provide it," they replied. Suddenly, the spirits grew bright and an intense light consumed Harry's field of vision, blinding him. He gave a startled cry and fell writhing on the floor, clutching his eyes. His uncle's irate pounding woke him minutes later. Still unable to open his eyes, Harry merely begged forgiveness and hoped that it would be enough to appease him. Harry released the breath he'd been holding as he heard his uncle retreat back up the stairs and a door slam shut.

"We apologize," said the spirits after a time, "It was not our intention to harm. It has been many years since the Sight was granted to one still living. We misjudged."

Harry opened his eyes experimentally and found that everything had changed. His vision had been corrected and the colors and shapes were crisp and vibrant. What's more, he could see a certain aura surrounding everything, running like small rivers into a translucent current.

"What you see is the currents of magic that tie all things together. Everything is connected. All is one," the spirits explained.

"What was that? What did you do?" Harry asked, still looking around in wonder.

"What you saw was our true form. We would not dare reveal ourselves to any of the living under normal circumstances, but you are an exception. You have already entered the realm of the dead once and we deemed it safe for you to look upon us. By allowing you to see us, you have been allowed to see all other things as we see."

"So I can see magic now?"

"Yes."

"This can protect me?"

"In time, you will learn to use it. Now rest, child. you have much to learn in the coming years."

The next morning, the spirits woke him with their first lessons. As he readied the Dursleys' breakfast and mowed their lawn, the spirits whispered to him magical theory-how the magic flowed and how it could be manipulated, like yarn or clay. In the evening, Harry's dreams consisted of more lessons. After some time, he began to notice knots in his own magic pool. When he questioned the spirits about them, they replied with an unprecedented amount of malice.  
"The old one who left you here put them there. We were most displeased, but could not do anything to prevent it. We had forgotten. It is time you removed them."

"What are they?"

"They are...blocks," the spirits replied, almost unwilling to explain any more, "They limit your intellectual and physical growth. This one," they gestured to the larger knot in Harry's magical pool, "blocks your magical abilities. This one, located in your eyes, incenses any who look into your eyes."

Harry floundered, looking for the right words. "Why would anyone-? Why me? What did that man have to gain by-? I need to sit down." He cradled his head in his hands.

"Calm, young one. It is alright. This is why we stay with you. We can help you. Many grave crimes have been committed against you. Come, we must undo these...knots."

They worked through the night to right the strands of Harry's magical pool. Where most would have a perfectly circular magical pool, Harrys was jagged, as if many slices had been cut out of a pie. The spirits assured him that they would grow back as torn flesh regrows and makes itself whole again. The damage had been dealt with early. He would grow up to have perfectly normal abilities.

"A word of warning," the spirits cautioned, "The old one will expect his blocks to still be in place when you see him. Do not do anything that catches his attention when it comes time for you to meet him again, or you will be in danger. Know this. In two years time, you will be taken from here and placed in a school where you will hone your skills. You will be in great danger. Nothing is as it seems."

With that knowledge, Harry drifted into an uneasy sleep, wary of what was to come.


End file.
